


BBHMM

by Raven_hart, The_Quiet_One



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, I don't know, M/M, blame Rihanna, cursing in case it's not your thing but it ain't that bad, this happened after watching The Necessary Death of Charlie Countryman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6240958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_hart/pseuds/Raven_hart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Quiet_One/pseuds/The_Quiet_One
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will finds out. Things don't exactly go as he planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBHMM

**Author's Note:**

> First fic, please be kind (jk all criticisms/comments/suggestions are welcome)

     It was all there. They had all been too stupid to see it, but it was all there. The timing of his “dinner parties” with the sounders, how perfectly he fit the profile, the vapid interest shown whenever Will would describe one of the tableaus, how supporting he was when Will was losing his mind, and the _freaking puns_. How the fuck had they all missed those terrible _puns?!_  


     Perhaps in hindsight Will would realize that storming one of the most prolific serial killer’s office to confront them wasn’t the most inspiring of ideas, but at the time it seemed logical. Thus Will found himself just outside the heavy oak door, trembling and just barely restraining himself from shooting the door hinges with the 9mm Glock holstered at his hip. Instead he knocks, the force used just this side of impolite, and vibrates in place. His shooting hand twitches, once, twice, and the muscles of his right arm and legs tense. An analog clock ticks once, loud as a propelled bullet, and Will launches forward, shouldering his way inside the good doctor’s office.

Yayo, yayo  
Moo-la-lah  
Yayo  


     Will stills, heavy bass and synthetic chords rooting him in place.

Bitch better have my money!  
Y'all should know me well enough  
Bitch better have my money!  
Please don't call me on my bluff  
Pay me what you owe me  
Ballin' bigger than LeBron  
Bitch, give me your money  
Who y'all think y'all frontin' on?  
Like brrap, brrap, brrap  


     The source of most, if not all, of Will’s misery sits reclined in his high-backed office chair, turned halfway from the desk with his eyes closed, seemingly totally unaware and relaxed.

Louis 13 and it's all on me, nigga you just bought a shot  
Kamikaze if you think that you gon' knock me off the top  
Shit, your wife in the backseat of my brand new foreign car  
Don't act like you forgot, I call the shots, shots, shots  
Like blah, brrap, brrap  
Pay me what you owe me, don't act like you forgot  


     Will makes an aborted wave, stops, and instead lets his hand fall limply back to his side. Dr. Lecter is dead to the world, for as responsive he’s been, and the dichotomy between the song and _everything_ Will thought he knew about the man makes any other movement impotent in Will’s nerves and brain.

Bitch better have my money!  
Bitch better have my money!  
Pay me what you owe me  
Bitch better have my (bitch better have my)  
Bitch better have my (bitch better have my)  
Bitch better have my money!  


     The echoes of the song move in waves around the office, and Will has to swallow three times before the words finally deign to leave his mouth.  
     “Hannibal?” Dr. Lecter cracks an eye, a smirk playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth.  
     “What brings you here so early, Will? Our appointment isn’t until tomorrow.”  
     “.....” Will opens and closes his mouth, a few syllables falling here and there that never really coalesce into meaning. Rather amused, though naturally not showing any of it, the good doctor swivels his chair, standing and walking within a few steps of Will in one smooth motion.  
     “Will?” A hand on Will’s shoulder, an eye on the glock still in his hand, “Are you experiencing a relapse?”  
     “I-interesting s-song choice, there.”  
     “Ah, yes,” Lecter nods, drawing Will to sit on the chaise, “a rather impulsive download acquired when an acquaintance had swiped my phone many, many years ago.”  
     “And you kept it?” Will still can’t reconcile the two, his confusion usurping the rage of earlier. Dr. Lecter hums, nodding again as he leans against the backing of the couch.  
     “It reminds me of my university days.” He smirks, a wicked curve of the lips that echoes unlit street corners and base actions in cheap hotel rooms. A time when he had the money.

**Author's Note:**

> The_Quiet_One and I went on a little rampage (watching whatever Mads Mikkelsen has appeared in) and this little monster was born from Rihanna's song "Bitch Better Have My Money" if that wasn't already obvious from the lyrics shamelessly copied into the fic. God save us all.


End file.
